by Jacob Stone
“I don’t think so. No, I don’t think anyone would be able to.”
“Wednesday then,” Lemmon said. “Also between two and three.”
Wayne’s eyes took on a faraway look as if he were deep in thought. “I must’ve been here,” he said at last. “I was doing carpentry for a set. I know I spent all morning working on it. I might’ve gone out late for lunch, but I’m pretty sure I was here.”
Gunderson gave Lemmon a quick look for his opinion. He shook his head, but the LAPD detective decided to ignore it, and told an increasingly despondent Wayne they were going to take him in for questioning until they could clear up the matter.
Chapter 29
“Sympathy for the Devil” woke the killer. As his mind became more alert, he recognized the song playing over his clock radio and mouthed the word wow. The synchronicity of that particular Rolling Stones song being played at that precise moment left him awestruck. It was more than a coincidence. It had to be. It was as if the universe was whispering a dark, unknown secret to him.
The killer had had a busy night. After taking care of Faye Riverstone, he was kept busy with other necessary tasks for his masterpiece until three-thirty in the morning, and it was only then that he was able to crawl into bed. After being up for almost three straight days and nights, he knew he’d sleep for a full twenty-four hours if he didn’t set the alarm, and so he set it for nine-thirty. Less than six hours of sleep wasn’t going to be enough, but there was still so much he needed to do. For now, he just needed to tough it out. One more week, and this would all be over, his masterpiece fully revealed to the world. He’d then be able to take a bow and bask in his glory, and sleep for as long as he wanted.
As the killer lay in bed, the near religious experience he’d earlier felt had dissipated, and was replaced by a sense of disquiet. Before too long he understood why as he remembered the local TV news broadcast from last night.
The two sketches they showed didn’t matter. While it had surprised him that they figured out he’d been sitting outside the bakery (the waitress must’ve helped them come up with the sketch of him wearing a blond wig and bushy mustache), he didn’t think either sketch looked much like him. The one of him hairless was laughable, and made him look almost like a snake. Still, to be on the safe side, he would disguise himself whenever he went out, and when this was all over, he planned to disappear to another continent. No, it wasn’t those police sketches that bothered him, but that they intentionally withheld the details of what he had done to his victims. He knew that was Brick’s doing; the ex-cop was trying to deny him his due. The killer had ways of rectifying that, and he would do so later that day by leaving an envelope outside the building of one of the local TV stations, maybe the one that broadcasts The Hollywood Peeper show.
Even though the police had withheld all the gory details, the story still dominated the news last night. A new serial killer was on the loose and one of the victims was a well-known actress, albeit a fading one who had slipped to making second-rate movies.
Of course, they didn’t have a clue about what was really going on. The police still probably believed what they found in Hipster Dipster was the rest of Heather Brandley. That bit of misdirection had been intentional; partly because the killer had found the idea of it amusing, but more importantly it would’ve ruined his plans if they had learned yesterday that the remains had come from Drea Kane. That domino wasn’t ready to fall yesterday. Now it was. In fact, it was imperative for Brick and the police to learn that nugget of information.
The killer stretched lazily, and with a concerted effort, forced himself out of bed. Another lazy stretch, and the killer staggered on stiff legs to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. As he waited for the coffee to brew, he turned on his laptop, and navigated to an untraceable spot on the dark net. Just as he had hidden a covert spy camera inside Hipster Dipster so he could watch a video feed, he had done the same at Drea Kane’s home, and he was surprised to see cops milling around the kitchen where he had left them his message. He wondered how they had discovered that Kane was his Hipster Dipster victim, and decided it didn’t matter. It was just as well that they had. It saved him from having to make an anonymous call.
The killer watched the video for several more minutes before forcing himself to turn it off. He had wanted to see Brick at the scene, but so what if he didn’t? He had too much to do to let himself compulsively waste time watching for that. For now, he would just have to satisfy himself by imagining Brick’s reaction when he showed up at Kane’s house. Or he could watch the video later.
The killer closed his eyes and took a calming breath. His latest domino had fallen, but he still had work to do to prepare for the next one.
* * * *
Morris called Annie Walsh on his way to Drea Kane’s home in Beverly Hills to tell her about the anonymous caller claiming the killer was named Reuben.
“I can’t believe I didn’t tell you that before since it was the reason I called.”
“I distracted you.”
“You did.”
“Drea Kane,” Walsh said. “The heat is going to be coming down on us like a thousand burning suns.”
What Annie Walsh said was of course true. Morris had already received a call from Gilman, and another from Hadley, and neither of them were particularly happy. Still, even though it was true, it was out of character for her to say something like that. Morris couldn’t remember her ever doing so, and he guessed she had read the line in a book, or heard it in a movie.
He said, “You getting poetic on me?”
She laughed. A sardonic, harsh laugh. “There’s got to be a first time for everything,” she said. “Or maybe this damn case is getting me punch drunk.”
“I guarantee you right now it’s making your boss, Hadley, sick to his stomach.”
“I imagine so.” There were several seconds of static on the line, then Walsh commented about how Reuben was an odd alias. “I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone with that name. The only person I’ve ever heard of named Reuben was the actor who played Pee Wee Herman.”
“That actor’s name is Paul Reubens.”
“Close enough.”
After he got off the phone with Walsh, Morris called Polk, first to tell him about Drea Kane, and then to tell him the R in R. G. Berg might stand for Reuben.
“So you’re telling me to concentrate only on Reuben G. Bergs?”
“Are there any on your list?”
“Not a one.”
“Then stick with what you’re doing.”
“You mean wasting my time? Like I did driving to Lakewood this morning so I could interview eighty-two-year-old Ronald Gilchrist Berg, even though I knew there was no point to it?”
“Gilchrist?”
“That’s his name.”
“You need to talk to all of them,” Morris said. “We need to find out why this guy is calling himself R. G. Berg. There’s got to be a reason for it.”
“You’re sure?”
“No, I’m not,” Morris admitted. “But we’ve got to try to find one. Even if it’s a needle in a haystack.”
“More like a needle in a hay silo. Anyway, you’re the boss, and I’m on my way to Bell Gardens as we speak to talk with Rosalind Gertrude Berg. She might be a lady, but she’s still an R. G. Berg. How much do you want to bet I’ll be wasting my time with her? I’ll give you a thousand to one odds.”
“Put me down for ten bucks.”
There was a noticeable silence, because Polk hadn’t been serious about the bet. Then, “You got it, Morris. That’s how sure I am.”
He no longer sounded so sure. Risking ten thousand dollars, even on a sucker’s bet, has a way of humbling you. Morris was going to get his money’s worth out of that ten dollars.
Drea Kane’s address was three blocks from Rodeo Drive, and as Morris drove down the heavily tree-lined street
, it seemed as if each house was trying to outdo the next. Kane’s won hands down. Morris didn’t know how to describe it other than as a palatial estate that could’ve been airdropped from Italy. It took real star power to have a house like that.
He pulled into the last spot in the circular driveway, which had to have been large enough to hold a dozen cars, and took Parker along with him. He kept the bull terrier on a short leash as he had a brief conversation with a uniformed officer standing guard out front, and he found Doug Gilman inside pacing in what looked like a sitting room past the marble foyer. Parker let out a short bark to get Gilman’s attention. The mayor’s deputy assistant’s eyes had a darkened look, almost as if they’d been ringed with soot. He first stared blankly at Parker, and then at Morris.
Even though Gilman had warned them in the past that he was a cat person, Parker had developed an affinity for him, and he jumped on Gilman, resting his front paws on him, his tail wagging steadily. Gilman seemed to pay little attention to this assault by the bull terrier, although he absently rubbed Parker’s snout. Morris ordered Parker down.
“This isn’t good,” Gilman said as he patted the top of the bull terrier’s cement-hard skull. “When the media gets wind of this, the heat is going to be unreal.”
“Like from a thousand burning suns,” Morris said.
Gilman stared at him as if he were crazy.
“Have you been drinking?”
Morris chuckled sourly. “No, although I’m feeling like I could use one.”
“Join the club. Kane’s agent, Thomas Mildew, is being interviewed by Detective Malevich. He seems legitimately distraught. I don’t think he knows anything.”
“Mildew?”
Gilman shrugged. “That’s his name.”
“I’ll talk to Greg later. Mildew also.” Morris heard a soft murmur from all sides—front, left, and right. It sounded like a storm brewing. He guessed the crime scene team was going through the house looking for any signs of violence or a forced abduction. “Where did the maniac leave his calling card?”
“Kitchen. Straight ahead in the back of the house. Or mansion. Whatever you call this.” His color paled, and he added, “The photos are beyond awful. I’ll join you.”
Parker seemed to sense they were heading to the kitchen, and he huffed as he tried to pull Morris after him, likely thinking there would be bacon involved. Given that the owner of the house, Drea Kane, had been brutally murdered, Morris tried to show the proper decorum and not stare as they made their way to the kitchen, but the house was spectacular, and while he didn’t know much about artwork, he guessed the paintings they passed on the walls must’ve been worth millions. Forget that his West Hollywood home was a shack in comparison—this house made Philip Stonehedge’s Malibu estate look like a starter home. Twenty million at least, he thought.
The kitchen was similar to what you’d find in a top restaurant. Large enough to fit the entire first floor of Morris’s home, it overlooked an intricately landscaped patio and a swimming pool that would’ve made many luxury resorts envious. Morris absorbed this at a glance, then joined Walsh and two BHPD detectives at the granite countertop. Gilman hung back so he wouldn’t catch another glimpse of the photos.
Walsh introduced Morris to the two detectives, and one of them filled him in on what they knew so far. No sign of a forced entry and no blood or other indications of an abduction. Also, the home security system had been turned off, and the front door had been left unlocked.
“The killer wanted to make it easy for us to gain access,” Morris said. “That’s what he left behind for us?”
The detective nodded. On the countertop was one of R. G. Berg’s business cards sitting on a stack of photos. None of it had been bagged yet. Walsh handed Morris a pair of latex gloves. Written on the card was: What must be puzzling you is the nature of my game. Morris, have you guessed my name?
“This hack is now ripping off the Rolling Stones,” Morris noted.
One of the BHPD detectives grunted in agreement.
Morris picked up the stack of photos and saw that Doug Gilman had been right. They were awful. Each one featured either Heather Brandley or Drea Kane, and showed different stages of their bodies being severed by a handheld circular saw. The killer’s gloved hand and part of his arm were visible in the photos. Morris had seen more than his share of dead bodies and the aftermath of horrific violent acts during his years as an LAPD homicide detective, but these photos were something else altogether, and they left him filled with dread and loathing. Logically, he understood why that was. In the first half dozen photos, the actresses were still alive, and their eyes and expressions reflected their horror. As much as he hated looking at them, he felt compelled to study each one in case it held a hidden clue. He was halfway through them when Parker suddenly tried to bull his way past Walsh and one of the BHPD detectives, and get under the granite countertop. Morris took a tighter hold on the leash, and ordered his dog to heel. The bull terrier did so, although not without letting out a couple of frustrated grunts.
“Is there something under there?” Morris asked.
Walsh checked. When she came back up from under the countertop, she was holding an olive-colored flash drive.
“It blended in with the marble floor,” she said.
One of the BHPD detectives retrieved a laptop computer. They attached the flash drive and found that it held a single video file. All of them seemed to be holding their breath as the file was clicked on. The video started playing and showed a blond woman naked and lying on what looked like a workshop table that had been covered with plastic sheeting, her arms and legs in restraints. She was still alive, but it wasn’t Heather Brandley or Drea Kane. She appeared drugged, her head rolling from side to side. The killer hadn’t bothered to gag her, and she made soft moaning noises.
She looked familiar to Morris. He could swear he knew her from somewhere.
“That’s Faye Riverstone,” one of the BHPD detectives said.
He was right. Faye Riverstone was petite and slender, but she had always played feisty characters in her movies, and that had given her a bigger-than-life quality. The woman tied up on the table looked so diminished. The poor lighting also helped to disguise her.
“The killer likes his blond actresses,” Walsh remarked.
They fell into a hushed silence after that. Gilman wandered over and joined them watching the video.
For several minutes, the video only showed Riverstone as she lay helpless on the table, then the killer came into view. He was dressed fully in black, and wore gloves and a black ski mask. At first, he stood sideways to the camera and caressed Riverstone’s jaw with his gloved hand. This went on for what seemed like an unbearable amount of time. Even though the actress was out of it, it looked like she was shrinking from his touch. It must’ve been something subconscious. Abruptly, the killer faced the camera.
“This is meant for Brick’s eyes only,” he said, his voice a deep base and unnatural, as if a voice changer were being used. “Although I’m sure other police and FBI will be examining this too. I suppose that can’t be helped. Brick, I’m not at all happy with how you’re trying to deny me my due, and your pettiness is tempting me to cut Faye in half right now. But I’m going to be the bigger man, at least for now, and I’ll be sporting and give you a chance to save her life.”
He walked out of the frame. Morris timed it and it took him thirty-two seconds to return. When he did, he carried a circular saw in one hand and what looked like a small butane torch in the other; the type of torch a chef would use in making crème brûlée. He lay the circular saw on the actress’s naked belly so that the blade faced the camera. It looked huge and ragged, like it could tear through a rhinoceros. The killer then ignited the torch, and a blue flame came out of it. He placed the torch outside the video frame; then he picked up the circular saw. A loud and abrasive whirring noise filled the room as the kil
ler powered the saw on. He moved quickly after that, and seconds later he had cut off the actress’s left hand. Her head lolled to the side, her eyes closed, and there was no longer any movement from her. The killer powered off the circular saw and retrieved the butane torch from where he had left it. He used this to cauterize the stump on her arm. When he was done he picked up the severed hand and showed it to the camera. The kitchen where Morris and the rest stood had gone deathly silent; even Parker stood motionless. The only noise was the hissing of the torch. Then the killer spoke.
“Noon Saturday I’ll be leaving this somewhere in LA with a clue attached,” he said, his voice still mechanically altered. “Noon Sunday it will be Faye’s right hand with another clue. Noon Monday, her left foot. Noon Tuesday, her right foot. Brick, if you haven’t found her by noon Wednesday, she gets cut in half. Whether she lives or dies, or how many appendages she loses, will now be determined by how clever you are.”
The video ended.
“Bastard,” Walsh whispered under her breath.
Morris gritted his teeth, his mind busy processing what he had seen. His voice sounded like it was echoing from somewhere outside his head as he said, “We need to get this to the FBI for analysis. These photos also. Maybe there’s something in them that can pinpoint where this video was made.”
“It looked like he put sheets up in the background,” Walsh said.
“Maybe they’ll get something when they analyze the audio,” Morris argued.
Gilman’s voice didn’t sound well when he said, “I don’t think he had seen your appearance this morning with Margot Denoir when he made this.”
That hit Morris like a punch to the gut, because he knew Gilman was right, and he dreaded what the killer would be doing when he did see it. He glanced back and noticed how unwell Gilman was looking.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I think I need some water.”
Gilman headed to the sink, his legs wobbly. He made it without collapsing, and he tried cupping water with his hand so he could drink it. Morris got a bottle of something called Bling H2O out of the refrigerator, and then helped Gilman to a chair. He cracked open the bottle and handed it to Gilman, who drank it as if his life depended on it. Once he was sure Gilman would be okay, he told Walsh they needed to find out where Faye Riverstone met the killer.
